


The Devil's Diner

by hoisinn, katdamn



Category: Othello - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: A healthy dose of swearing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Digital Art, Ectoplasm, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Ghost Stories, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Haunted Houses, Humor, Kissing, Sleepovers, Slice of Life, how is ghost stories not a tag..., mercutio is like.... mentioned twice, roderigo is an absolute disaster of a man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoisinn/pseuds/hoisinn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/katdamn/pseuds/katdamn
Summary: Iagooooooooooo…!” Roderigo whines, rising in both pitch and volume. “C-can we not!?”"Christ!” the other replies, wriggling his arm out of its prison and nudging him away. “It’s just a ghost story! And not even a particularly good one, at that. Where’s my gore, where’s my women getting kidnapped, where’s my ‘Ooooh, I’m Roderigo and I’m too freaked out by some dumb urban legend to go inside a house so I’ll just die in the foyer instea-""I-Iago, I am this far away from punching you.”





	The Devil's Diner

**Author's Note:**

> HOOOOOHHHH HIGH SCHOOL EXAMS END IN A WEEK I’M DYING.
> 
> If... I’m going to be quite honest, I’m not sure what this AU is. Perhaps a college AU? Yeah, let’s go with that. All you really need to know is that the main cast have planned on spending the night at Roderigo’s house since it’s BIG and COOL and has a really nice TV they can watch horror movies on.  
See if you can spot the parts where I completely lost it while writing this.
> 
> Also, big shoutout to katdamn for being a wonderful beta!! All your edits and suggestions are very much appreciated <33

“No, Iago, I am _ not _ going in there.”

“Come on, you’re being completely irrational.”

“No. Stop. I will pee my pants.”

The older man looks at Roderigo incredulously, thick brows lowering in what can only be described as the expression one would cast upon an outspoken Flat-Earther. His companion stares back at him, stubborn determination glinting in his eyes.

“You heard me! I _ will _ p-”

“Roderigo, you’re a grown-ass man.”

“And it’s a haunted house! Haunted! I mean, look at it- there are spiderwebs on the windows and purple vines everywhere, and there’s, like, a hole in the wall that sorta looks like a witch…”

Indeed there was everything he had described. The house itself is situated at the end of a campus walkway, orange fairy lights strung up between each of the trees lining the path and diverging toward each of the poles on the balcony of the second floor. It has a strange resemblance to a large, two-storey American diner, complete with flickering neon lights that suspiciously resemble Christmas decorations (in October? Atrocious). Other students are along the walkway too, in charge of their stalls selling homemade confectionery, devil horn headbands, and some other assortment of items that neither of them had bothered to take notice of. A group of five students are standing around the entrance of the haunted house, of which none of their faces could be identified due to how far away they are. One of them, however, recognises the sound of Roderigo’s voice. While he continues complaining loudly to his companion, a student turns to their own friends and spoke, resulting in the sudden departure of all to other stalls, except for one.

“... And look at that tree’s shadow on the roof! It looks like someone’s dead body, or something! You know, like someone _ died _ in there, you know, like it’s _ haunted _…”

For all his anxieties, the younger man is incredibly capable of setting his mind on something, and sticking with it. Unfortunately, this “something” happens to be working himself up to the point of almost crying. Perhaps the only reason Roderigo and Iago are friends is because they shared the same obstinance: no matter how much Roderigo protested, the older student was absolutely resolute on getting him through the house and win Mercutio’s bet.

A hand clamps down on Roderigo’s shoulder, causing him to jolt out of his downward spiral of fear.

“Hey, tell ya what. Desdemona hasn’t been inside yet, right? Once you know how this place works, you could totally take her through. It’s dark inside and she scares easily, you get me?”

As expected, Roderigo shrugs Iago’s hand off, sighing harshly.

“I am _ not _ falling for that again. Isn’t she Othello’s fiancee now? I can’t do that! I’ll tell _ you _ what: I’m going- I’m going home.”

He does not go home.

Iago can almost see the gears turning in his brain stuttering toward the enticing prospect of holding Desdemona close in the hazy purple light, her long black hair masking her pale face as she stares up at him with teary eyes, arms holding him in a tight embrace, perhaps they could go somewhere else afterwards, do something together, he could treat her to a meal at the nice restaurant his mother’s friend owned (_he’d _ pay for it, of course), and they’d walk home together - well, maybe to her home, where they’d depart with sweet sighs and the promise to meet again, or maybe to his own house, hand in hand, the warmth of their emotions stirring to protect both from the October nights, then they’d arrive, and...

The gears stop spinning.

Roderigo lets out another sigh, to which Iago responds with a smile and a hard pat on the back.

“Atta boy. Let’s go.”

There’s no-one at the table outside the house when the pair arrive, though they can see the lone student flashing in and out of view through the boarded up windows of the diner - probably resetting some of the traps and jumpscares inside. Roderigo bites his lip, arms crossing, eyeing uneasily most of his surroundings.

“Just in and out, yeah? Super quick. It’ll just be like-”

Iago, leaning against the counter outside the entrance, snaps his fingers.“That.”

The other man looks intent that no, it would not be like ‘that’, but before he can object, the student announces a muffled, “Gimme a minute, I’ll… be right out,” leaving no chance to escape- or rather, chicken out with the only witness.

“No backing out now,” Iago reminds helpfully.

The sound of metal slamming shut rings out like Death’s church bell: clanging, clamouring, leaden circles dissolving in the air. The student emerges, adjusting the ruffles of his costume as the door closes behind him.

“Welcome to the Devil’s Diner, sorry for the w-”

“OH. My God.”

Iago splutters, chokes in a snort, lips held thin behind the hand that has risen over his mouth… then bursts out cackling - banging his fist on the counter repeatedly as he laughs like Cassio in a sexy vampire costume is the funniest thing he’ll ever see before he dies.

“Oh my God. Oh. Oh, Jesus.”

He’s still smirking widely once the guffaws have stopped, breathing in a wildly exaggerated manner as if catching his breath after a marathon. Roderigo doesn’t seem to have connected the dots quite yet, concern etching his features into one of a man who really doesn’t want to be here.

Well, he didn’t want to be here before, anyway, but what with Iago wheezing and a vampire cringing and a haunting ambience filling the background, he just wants to go home a bit more.

Cassio can feel a little something die inside of him, frozen not like a deer in headlights, but rather like a teenager caught raiding the fridge for a cheesy midnight snack. He glances between Iago and Roderigo with an expression of absolute despair, waiting for the former to calm down before he continues talking - which ends up taking an uncomfortable length of time (Roderigo had managed to connect the dots then, though tactfully chooses to stay silent).

“Ok. Oh, fuck. Ok, c-continue,” Iago croaks after a while - again, exaggerated. The haunting mood is now effectively dissolved at that point, even Roderigo appears slightly relaxed at the prospect of entering the haunted house. Cassio simply holds his hand out for the entrance fee and gestures the two into the doorway once the money was procured.

“As I said,'' he begins again, with the trio now seated on replicas of diner chairs as was only suitable for the American 50’s aesthetic.“Welcome to the Devil’s Diner. Though it looks like a quaint place to grab some grub, the house actually holds a terrifying secret. Do you dare enter and explore?”

He speaks with a spiteful monotone, a complete absence of emotion penetrating every syllable. Forget the customer service voice, they didn’t deserve even that.

“Legend has it that long ago, a young couple wanted to fulfil their dream of opening a diner and sharing their recipes to the world. However, what they did not know was that they were building on earth that had been cursed centuries ago after a battle between humans and a supernatural force. Ghosts.”

With that, the haunting mood returns. Unlike Iago, who’s half-listening at best, and was waiting to make fun of any actors in the house. Roderigo was captivated by the tale, wringing his hands in his lap as Cassio continues.

“The humans had won and banished the ghosts to another realm. However, the ghosts laid a curse upon the land if ever another battle was fought, so they'd have the advantage. What should the ghost curse but none other than humankind’s greatest desire? The thing that sustains us. Yes, I speak of food. And they would leave their mark through a poisonous glowing ectoplasm.

“Indeed, anyone who ate food made by the diner, as innocently unaware as the owners were, would be cursed to perish within the month - all ‘accidents’- and rise again as a ghost. They were amassing an army, and one day, they would return with a vengeance. So tread with care, for you never know what horrors may be revealed, what dangers lurk in the shadows…and what might happen to you within.”

Cassio ends the story devoid of expression, the faint conversations of students milling about outside filtering through the walls. The three sit in silence, neither wanting to speak first.

“I’ll… go now,” Cassio finally mutters, dusting his pants off and disappearing into nearby side door, leaving Roderigo and Iago with naught but an oppressive, awkward atmosphere settling upon the pair like a stack of stones.

Slowly, Roderigo reaches toward his neighbour and grasps Iago's arm with unprecedented strength, a grip comparable to a bear trap, or that one bit of a sticker that you can’t quite scratch off, unrelenting and refusing to let go.

“Iagooooooooooo…!” he whines, rising in both pitch and volume. “C-can we not!?”

“Christ!” the other replies, wriggling his arm out of its prison and nudging him away. “It’s just a ghost story! And not even a particularly good one, at that. Where’s my gore, where’s my women getting kidnapped, where’s my ‘Ooooh, I’m Roderigo and I’m too freaked out by some dumb urban legend to go inside a house so I’ll just die in the foyer instea-’”

“I-Iago, I am _this _ far away from punching you.”

“Oh, stop being such a pussy. How much worse can it get than _ that _ travesty of an introduc-”

“No, shush! That’s what they always say!”

“... Heh. I mean, it can’t be thaaat bad-”

“NO!”

Without warning, the room plunges into darkness, triggering the glow-in-the-dark, lime paint splashes on the walls to light up.

“ENTERING WAS EASY,” wails an anonymous, modulated voice from a speaker above them, “BUT WILL YOU BE ABLE TO ESCAPE UNHARMED?”

At this, Roderigo yelps and clings not to Iago’s arm, but around Iago’s entire torso, causing the man to shudder and attempt to squirm his way out again. He squints in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light and his body to the additional 140 pounds that was his unfortunate friend.

“Ugh, get up, y’ big lug! Get off me!”

The younger man shakes his head against the other frantically, squeezing even tighter.

“No…” he moans, pressing his face against Iago’s shoulder to prevent himself from seeing anything (and closing his eyes for an added layer of protection). “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s-”

“Oi. Look!”

Iago rapidly shakes his shoulder, prompting Roderigo to peek up in discomfort and squint at where Iago was pointing.

“A… line?”

Specifically, a thick, glowing line of paint decorating the middle of the walls. It outlined the perimeter of the room as a small rectangle, which Iago surmised was useful in keeping people from colliding into things in the dark, but also…

“Yeah, y’see how there’s a little gap there? Right there.”

Roderigo nods glumly.

“That’s b’cause there’s a door there. It opens where the gap is. We can just follow that as the way out, instead of having to stumble around in the dark. That’ll make it a lot quicker, eh?”

The grip on Iago loosens marginally.

“I-I _guess_,” he mumbles, signalling to the other that he would rather just get everything over and done with.

Past the door, the line continues on down a long corridor, plastic skulls fastened upon the walls with small, fake candles in their eye sockets. Red paint served as blood splatters on the black-and-white checkered floor. A creaking, otherworldly ambience plays throughout, which even Iago could admit was starting to get on his nerves.

  
The corridor opens into another lobby joined to a large dining area, though this one was more fitting to the aesthetic of a diner (did diners have lobbies? Neither of them knew - never having travelled to America before), complete with a set of menus, vintage decor, and a row of ‘Employee of the Month’ awards. These photographs had been defaced with paint, making each person look rather demonic. Ahead, Iago notices slightly raised panels upon the floor - pressure plates, perhaps? The prospect of stepping on each and every one is mightily tempting, but something tells him that Roderigo would not appreciate it in the slightest.

“Hey. Open your eyes and let go. You’ve got to jump over some stuff, ‘less you wanna be scared shitless.”

With a murmur of objection mouthed against Iago’s jacket, Rogerigo begrudgingly complies but remains pressed against the older’s side. The newfound freedom allows Iago to roll his shoulders and shake the tingling from his arms and fingertips.

“Just stand here, let y’self get used to the darkness,” he instructs, craning his neck to the side to catch a glimpse of the next room’s interior (but to no avail).

“You’ll be able t’ see some… some sorta raised squares on the ground. Don’t step on those.”

“Mhm.”

The two stand there for a rather uncomfortable length of time. Iago hasn’t sensed Roderigo move at all, even the ambient track had restarted ten minutes ago.

“You, uh. You alright, dude?” he enquires. Roderigo continues to look straight ahead, lips pressed together in terror.

“No!” he exclaims, as if it were obvious. Iago supposes that it was.

“Oh,” he says flatly, at a loss for what to do next. After several moments of deliberation, Iago gives up with a sigh. “I - Okay, look, I’m gonna go ahead and show you how it’s done, and then you can follow.”

“Ah- Wait-!”

But before Roderigo can restrain him again, he’s off, striding and leaping across the broad strips of pressure plates that lay across the ground, until he arrives at the far end of the room, not a single trap having been set off. To the right of him is a set of stairs, with more paint dripping down the steps. The glowing stripe continues up toward the second floor, where Iago could see a door ‘fastened’ with wooden planks nailed across, sawn so that it would still open normally.

“C’mon now!” he shouts over to Roderigo, “I’ll leave you alone if you don’t hurry up! The fuck happened to in and out, like-”

He snaps his fingers again.“That?”

Roderigo makes no reply for a while, fists clenching and unclenching by his side, wishing to God that for one - just for one second - the music could stop so he could focus on not being, as Iago would describe it, a huge fucking pussy.

“Mmmm…” He's still entirely unsure of how to cross the room.

“I’m going up,” Iago calls out, giving Roderigo a little wave before moving out of his view, deliberately making his footsteps louder as he begins his ascent.

“MmmmMMMFINE.”

Hearing tentative footsteps make their way across the room, Iago pops back down into the dining area to find Roderigo stepping across the first plate. Ah, so he was tall enough that he didn’t need to jump over. Good for him. Makes things easier for them both.

“You’re doin’ great,” he half-heartedly encourages, watching the other cautiously make his way across. Well, that wasn’t going too badly! Iago can almost feel a surge of… pride, like a teacher who is finally able to award a struggling student his first ‘A’.

Unfortunately, life has a tendency of doing exactly the opposite of what we want it to do. Have exams soon? Enjoy the flu. Meeting some friends on the weekend? Have a nice, hearty serving of rainy weather. Making your way relatively smoothly and calmly through a haunted house? Well, hopefully you’re in the mood for your dumbass companion accidentally triggering a jumpscare.

For Iago could almost feel time stretch and slow down as he turns toward Roderigo, each second of the clock dilating as his foot fell closer, ever closer, to the pressure plate. Both pairs of eyes widen, one furious, one petrified.

It lands.

Click.

BANG.

Roderigo immediately reels away from the floor as if it were made of molten iron, emitting a deafening scream as he bumps against the wall and knocks down an employee photograph, the protective glass shattering into a million pieces flying in every direction and almost stabbing Iago in the foot.

CLANG!

The sound triggers another panel in the wall to drop down with a resounding crash. It reveals a small window behind the wall near Iago, where another student stands, their glowing mask sprouting two pairs of horns decorated with blood-red patterns. Holding their hands up like claws, they shriek into the room, cackling maniacally. It resounds. Echoes. Bounces evilly between the walls to reach Iago, who, without a moment's hesitation, swings his fist back and punches the student straight in the face.

There’s a sound at the door. A firm rapping of knuckles against mahogany, hesitation almost - but not quite - evident in the knocks.

Othello, waiting for his milk to finish microwaving, looks up from his phone at the interruption. He can’t see from the kitchen who it is, but even then he’s moving, jogging between the couches in the living room to reach for the door, for the only person it could possibly be (unless Roderigo had lost his keys) is-

“Dessie!”

“Trick or treat!”

And she’s even more beautiful tonight, long ebony hair in a messy bun tied with a wine-red ribbon, a pair of small antlers on a headband extending out from her head. Rich caramel-coloured makeup accentuates her features (and were those painted white freckles on her cheeks too?), a velvety tan top lined with black lace tickling her delicate, pale skin…

Othello could go on and on until the world collapsed and they with it, but he had to choose.

“Ah, you don’t need a treat…” he starts. He wasn’t great at flirting, but he had been practicing this one. “...Because you’re already looking like a right snack.”

Wink. Smirk.

A pause.

Desdemona bursts out laughing in that delightful, absolutely adorable way only she can do, fist held to her mouth to muffle herself. Contagious, Othello starts giggling as well, until the two of them are just standing at the open door, chuckling at nothing in particular anymore.

“A snack…” Desdemona repeats once they’ve both calmed down a little, sounds of laughter melting into the air. “Wa- was that your trick, then? To make a bad line so bad it turns good again?”

And back she goes, trying unsuccessfully to dull her giggles under her hand.

“Aw, what?” Othello says, gesturing for Desdemona to come inside the house and stop the chill from entering. “I thought it was a great line!”

“It was cheesy. So cheesy,” she remarks, raising herself on tip-toes and drawing him down for a peck on his cheek. “I loved it.”

“Oh, fuck!” Iago curses, peering in the side room and down to the student inside it, who is very much unconscious and crumpled on the floor, mask obscuring any injuries to the face they may have attained. Roderigo is once again terrified into a statue-like stillness, barely breathing in fear that he might trigger another something to fall down or shoot up or sound out.

“Y-you killed them!” he chokes out eventually, horror permeating every part of him.

“What? No the fuck I didn’t. Lemme just…”

Iago reaches into his inner jacket pocket for his phone, switching on the flashlight and shining it over the student.

“I can see ‘em breathing. It’s fine, it’s _ fine _.”

“You had a TORCH this ENTIRE TIME?”

“Yeah..?” he answers, switching the light off and checking his companion again. “What about i-”

Roderigo finally moves, stumbling and reaching a hand out towards Iago (despite the two still being quite a distance from each other). “No, keep it on! Shine it at the floor!”

“Whaaat? But that ruins all the fun!”

“I do _ look _ like I want to have fun!?”

Iago shrugs, obliging with the request and shining a light upon the uncrossed plates, following Roderigo’s movement as he makes his way across again at an even slower pace, and wondering if Mercutio’s thirty dollars (and two drinks on him at the local bar) is actually worth all this trouble.

Thankfully, the stairs were not trapped, though the students running the house capitalised on its rather tight and claustrophobic nature, adorning the walls with haunting, realistic vintage prints (Iago has to pay kudos to the artists of the school) and more candlelit skulls that occasionally let out a “hehehehe!” or “hoohoohoo!” from the small speakers taped to their bottoms.

The stairs lead to the ‘boarded up’ door through which another main dining area was situated, messy handprints and Pollock-esque paint splashes of luminous lime. Iago can barely make out a restaurant menu stretched above the ordering counter, with what appeared uncannily like…

They just stole one of the whiteboards from the math department, didn’t they.

Plates of synthetic food lies around the counter and eating booths, more slime painted to drip out of the hamburgers or squirted onto the fries, several with bites carved out of them (though whether that was intentional, or if some poor fool actually thought it was real food, Iago had no idea).

“C-come _ on _, Iago, I think that’s the last room over th-th-there…”

Roderigo points to the furthest corner of the room. Iago can discern the ever so subtle tinge of yellow nightlights coming from the outside. Yeah, that’d be it. His inclination is to explore further - after all, it was obvious that the students had put great effort into constructing the interior of the diner and Iago wished to admire their attempts, if nothing else.

But…

He _ had _ promised an in-and-out journey. And for today, just for today, watching Roderigo who had stolen his phone and is using it to guide himself out of the house, Iago feels as if both of them have had enough.

The eerie ambience was _ really _ eating away at his sanity anyway. He could already foresee it playing in his dreams, which was very much undesirable.

“Oi! Ya little fucker, give me my phone back!”

“When we’re out…” Roderigo replies, shuffling into the final room. Iago speeds up his walking pace to catch up, not wishing for his friend to get caught off guard by some other out-of-nowhere scare right at the end without anyone to cry to.

“FUCK!” sounds from that same friend.

Ah, that can’t be good. Roderigo never swore.

Dashing into the room, Iago gets blasted from the left with watery, glowing slime. He flinches in surprise. They’d set up motion sensors hadn’t they, those sneaky engineering students! Roderigo is panicking in the aftermath of his own attack, his plain sweater now decorated in a healthy dose of goop.

“AHHH! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Get it off me!!”

Roderigo attacks the slime with his sleeve, succeeding in only spreading it further. Indeed, it penetrated the very fibres of his outerwear and was now oozing its way inward at a sluggish pace towards the delectable goal that was his shivering skin, such that it could Freak Him The Fuck Out more.

“Dude! Shut the fuck up! Just take ya fuckin’ sweater off!” Iago instructs, despite coming over to him and helping in his futile quest to get rid of the slime.

“No! What if more gets on me!? I’m only wearing a shirt under this! I don’t wanna be poisoned and dieeeee!”

Out of Iago’s exasperation comes an idea, as he stops wiping and turns to the far door of the room, which led to a rickety set of stairs heading outside. Grabbing Roderigo’s forearm, he drags him out the house and down the stairs, the younger man’s outcries attracting the quizzical stares of nearby students and visitors. Cassio is absent from the counter, though making fun of his ridiculous costume was now the least of Iago’s worries.

“We’re going back to your house to wash you off,” he explains and says nothing more, raising his hand to hail a taxi once they’d reached the main street.

(Iago supposes they could’ve just used the showers in the gym, but Roderigo probably would have complained about the filth, and the water there was always too cold, anyway.)

The microwave announces the completion of its job with a ding.

Desdemona places her overnight bag in the guest bedroom (Othello had already set up the place, scented candles, orange rose petals, and all), replacing her heels with a set of fuzzy deer-themed slippers. She had never actually been to Roderigo’s house before but it’s pretty much what she expected: big, a little vintage, a little rustic, and largely untouched (his parents were overseas, and if he had siblings, Desdemona didn’t know them). She finds Othello in the living room, putting down two steaming mugs. Was that… the smell of pumpkin spice?

“I heard you liked the flavour when you visited America,” he says, smiling at her as he leaves to get tissues from the kitchen.

“You remembered? That’s so sweet, thanks babe!”

She plops down unceremoniously on the sofa, draping a woollen blanket over herself, waiting for Othello to return before she starts drinking. Looking around her, she can see several paintings on the wooden wall panelling, mostly old pastoral scenes inherited from Roderigo’s relatives in Spain.

Aside from the humming of the fridge and the purr of cars outside, it was oddly quiet.

“Hey, Othello?”

She shifts to lean against him once he’s back. “Is Emilia here yet?”

“She was already making dinner before I got here. It’s pretty late, she’s probably asleep.”

For indeed it was far past dinner and drawing closer to midnight by the minute. She sighs contently, taking a sip of her drink and moving the other half of the blanket over Othello’s lap. Under its woolly cover, he wraps an arm around her waist, allowing Desdemona to rest her head in the crook of his shoulder.

“So, you gonna tell me how you escaped your uncle?” he enquires, gently kissing her on the forehead.

“Ah, it wasn’t anything interesting. Our relatives are visiting the city over the weekend, so he’s staying over at their hotel for the night. But he’ll expect me to be, like, at the hotel tomorrow morning so I can go sightseeing with them and talk about… college, work, and all that. So I won’t be able to stay the morning, sorry.”

She and Othello share the same disappointment, steadily downing their drinks, listening to the crackling of the fireplace, and wishing with varying degrees of intensity that Brabantio would, for lack of a better term, eventually Fuck Off out of their love life.

“But I’m g-”

“Let’s not worry about that for the moment, Des. We’re together, alone tonight, away from the people in the way of our happiness. After all…”

“Let me guess,” Desdemona says, grinning and setting her mug down on the table. “If it were now to die, ‘twere now to be most happy?”

“So you _ have _ been reading my poems!” Othello says, a faint red hue rising in his cheeks. “Are they - They’re in the… school magazine, right? I don’t remember giving them permission- b-but I mean, if you like them…”

Raising her arms so that the blanket slides off them both, Desdemona promptly wraps her arms around Othello’s shoulders before kissing him deeply on the lips.

“My prince,” she says once they break apart, a deep flush now spreading across her cheeks. “I love them. And everything that you do. I love _ you _, Othello, and don’t you ever forget that.”

Emilia, in fact, was not asleep. After finishing her dinner (and greeting Othello), she headed upstairs to scope out Roderigo’s legendary home library. It _ was _ technically locked, though the poor man had done a slack job at keeping up the security, simply leaving all the keys on a rack near the entrance - all Emilia had to do was try each of them out until she got the right one. _ By her Gods, _ was it magnificent.

A gap in the silvery curtains allowed the then setting sun to burn a line into the room, illuminating the dust flakes that floated in the air. There were various antique armchairs arranged around a wooden coffee table, complete with a set of stationary next to an empty vase. The upper level boasted a grand, colourful tapestry of dancing women and men in wide brimmed hats surrounded by floral patterns. 

It wasn’t until Emilia shut the door and flicked the switch on, that she could behold the majesty of what she came here for.

The books. The shelves upon shelves of books, extending up two floors, the majority of them records and memoirs - Roderigo’s mother was a historian - which was wonderfully perfect for what Emilia intended. She wanted to explore the past.

Which brings her to the present.  
Emilia slips out of the library, everything back in its original position. Locking the door behind her, with the other arm carrying a sizeable stack of books regarding, oh, a bit on the East India Company and a bit on Bengal, she quietly makes her way down the stairs. And judging by the soft voices below, Desdemona has arrived at last.

She enters with the couple submerged in their own little world: Othello lying back on the couch while Desdemona leans over him. Her antlers are tossed to the side and hair untied, hanging down, obscuring their vision of Emilia calmly setting her books down on a nearby table, taking their mugs to the sink and checking the clock. 11:35, eh? Iago and Roderigo should be back any minute.

“Ahem,” she utters, announcing her presence to them. The pair react instantly, Othello tightening his grip on Desdemona’s shoulders and she seizing up, eyes widening almost comically.

“HELLO,” she bursts out when mobility returns, sitting right back up on the couch and sweeping her hair back. “I DIDN’T SEE YOU THERE.”

“Hello Desdemona, hello Othello… again. I was about to say that the boys will be returning soon - Iago told me 11:30 - so I suggest you two move somewhere a bit more…”

She waves a hand, waiting for one of the others to finish her sentence.

“Private,” Othello mumbles, no longer lying on the couch. “Got you.”

And off they went, retreating into the guest room.

The front entrance slams open following the fading sound of a taxi driving off, the metal of the gate ringing into the night as two pairs of footsteps tread along the brick-paved walkway to the door. Muffled swearing can be heard as someone fumbles for the keys to the house, wriggling it around inside the lock until the knob turns, door swinging dramatically to reveal Iago and Roderigo in all their chaotic glory.

They came early, Emilia notes, exiting the kitchen and holding a box of sunflower seeds as a reading snack.

Roderigo, meanwhile, looks around his own house, eyes rapidly scanning each door in sight.

“Closest- oh, there’s a bathroom in there!” he announces, already making a beeline to a closed door near the fireplace. Iago trails after him, behind by a step, with his own jacket tied around his waist.

“No, wait, that’s a bedroom, isn't it?” he asks, sharing a brief nod with Emilia as a greeting. Roderigo shakes his head, glancing back and motioning to hurry, which Iago does.

“Bathroom’s connected,” he explains. “Guest room, technically. Let’s go, let’s go..!”

Emilia blinks. Ah, shit.

“You shouldn’t-” she counters, voice raised, pivoting to block them from the door. “Desde-”

But it was too late, for both had already entered.

The smell of cinnamon and rose petals fills the heated air. Desdemona grabs at Othello’s shirt, his own hands drawing patterns on her back, fingers hooking over her costume to peel the velvet down her body, revealing soft expanses of milky white skin. She sighs, tilting her chin up as he mouths at her neck, trailing delicate little kisses down to her chest. Othello gazes up at her with hooded eyes, ever enraptured by the way her hair would shine in the candlelight, the golden orange making her as beautiful as an angel- no, more beautiful, for he could feel her and she could return his touch, and nothing would ever be more exquisite than this moment. Nothing and no-one could take this time away from them.

With a click, the door swings ajar.

Othello has his fingers barely grazing the clasps of Desdemona’s bra when the sound of her shrieking causes him to flinch, jolt his head upward from her chest, and hit her nose with such a force that a second shriek is almost immediately followed by a drop of blood landing on his shirt. He barely gets a chance to comprehend _ that _ series of events, let alone the cause of Desdemona’s scream, before their door slams shut, leaving the two in the dim flickering of candlelight once again.

From where she sat, Emilia observes the two men backing away from the bedroom with disappointment, but not even an ounce of surprise. The fireplace has not changed in its crackling, the box of sunflower seeds has not changed in its taste, and this biography has not changed in its mildly disturbing tangent. Iago and Roderigo have not changed in their antics either, but that's a given. She pushes her glasses up as an acknowledgement of their regained presence, mouth twitching into a half-amused smile.

“... As I was going to say, Desdemona’s spending the night over. She called while you two were out.”

Bianca suddenly raises her head from Cassio’s lap, sitting upright on the park bench. Their college’s Halloween celebration was drawing to an end, the haunted house was closed, and students were leaving the premises in small groups to later celebrations in the city bars. In the lamp-lit shade, Cassio fixates on the pigeons in front of him, shoddy streetlights barely reaching their cooing forms.

“Cassio?”

“Mmm?”

“Weren’t we going to Roderigo’s house with the others today?”

“...Mhm.”

“So, um.”

She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear, tracing his line of sight to the pigeons. “Why are we just sitting here outside?”

Cassio takes a while to respond. Bianca notes how, below all the lights, a pink flush is forming in his cheeks.

“Some people saw something they were never meant to see,” he replies softly, embarrassment coating each word.

In the time it takes Bianca to respond, the pigeons have waddled a short distance away from the pair, now pecking the footpath for morsels. She rests her head down on Cassio’s lap again, fiddling with a stray thread hanging down from his scarf.

“Was… was it the… vampi-”

“Yes.”

“...Ah.”

“I... should’ve never taken up Mercutio on that dare.”

“You really shouldn’t have, darling.”

And the silence resumes. Miniature, rectangular lights decorate the skyline as students return to their dormitories and spend the night in solitary peace, just as the stars, gleaming above them, adorn the heavens. Soon, Bianca feels her boyfriend’s hand stroking gently through her hair. The mood lapses into a companionable, atmospheric quiet dotted by pigeons and faraway traffic.

The handle turns, the door opens, and Desdemona emerges from the bedroom wearing regular clothes, a mass of tissues held up to her nose, making eye contact with no-one and heading toward the vague direction of the kitchen. Iago observes from the corner of his eye until she’s out of sight, only then rising slowly from his position on the couch and sneaking up the stairs to the main bathroom - Roderigo timidly following. Emilia can make out Othello through the door’s opening, sitting straight-backed on the bed and stuck on an expression between mortification and fragile dignity. So it seemed Cassio and Bianca weren’t coming tonight, after all.

Turning another page in the book, she can hear the tick... tock... tick... tock… of the clock above her, counting down the seconds to midnight. She really should have been asleep a few hours ago in order to enjoy the first sunrise of a new month, however - and she smiles knowingly to herself - there’s another task at hand. So she stays seated, reading, waiting, listening to the gentle ambience of her friends. She can hear Desdemona rummaging around for an ice pack, Othello's silence in the guest room, and… how are the two up in the bathroom going?

Iago’s irate mutterings are soon accompanied by the gurgle of running water, the shower raining down upon Roderigo’s sweater (which he’d _ finally _ been convinced to take off) and his own jacket. The latter sits on a short stool in the corner, arms around his knees and one hand fiddling with a hole in his jeans.

“The fuck did they use to make this stuff, ain’t fuckin’ coming out...bastards... All my other jackets are in the laundry,” he grumbles, turning the tap from cold to blisteringly hot water in the hope that a change in temperature could succeed in removing the slime. His hands sting from the sudden heat, making him hiss under his breath.

“Iago?” Roderigo pipes up, having noticed the new clouds of water vapour drifting from the shower. His grip on the clothes tightening, Iago can feel his frustration digging deeper than his fingernails ever could, turning back to frown at the younger student.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve dragged ya in there, it was a dumb fuckin’ decision-”

Suddenly stopping his speech, the tone of Iago’s voice shifts away from a finely cultivated feigned patience, and toward, surprisingly, a strange strain of disquiet.

“Haven’t I said it enough? No need to rub salt in the wound, or whatever people say.”

Roderigo, ever oblivious, simply goes over to the bathroom counter, facing Iago’s reflection in the nearby mirror as he rifles through the various soaps and powders scattered around. Did he have even the most minuscule idea of the effect any of them would have on the clothes? Nope! But he was damn well gonna try.

“It _ was _ a dumb decision. You owe me… a drink, or something. But, uh, I was just wondering if something in here would make the cleaning easier.”

Oh? Iago has no immediate response, continuing to meet Roderigo’s occasional glances for a while before his gaze drifts down to the movement of the products from the ‘unsorted’ pile to the ‘lets try this!’ and ‘maybe not’ piles. Unsurprisingly, everything ended up in the ‘lets try this!’ pile. He answers Iago’s look of scepticism with a somewhat apologetic shrug.

He lowers the temperature down to something more mild because god DAMN, that was really starting to hurt. “It’s… really… not gonna work. Those are people soaps, not fabric soaps.”

“We can _ try _. The slime’s ghost stuff, and ghosts used to be people,” Roderigo insists, having now cleared the entire counter of bottles. He unfastens a small clasp on the side of the mirror, ready to go through everything else in the cabinet behind it. Swinging it open, he continues.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

Tick… tock… 

Emilia hugs Desdemona goodnight, letting her retreat once again into the guest bedroom for whatever she and Othello were in the middle of before the interruption. My, my, it was getting very late, so very close to midnight, and she does want to finish this chapter soon. Taking a brief stop in the kitchen, she fixes herself a cup of decaf tea, paying attention to the ticking hands of the clock as the water boils.

Tick… tock… tick… tock…

Tick.

A glass-shattering scream erupts from the bathroom, sound rolling through the corridors, hurtling under doors, rumbling down the stairs, filling every crevice, and finally crashing in its petrified glory upon Emilia. She can imagine the scene almost perfectly: an open cabinet, bottles cleared out, and a winking sensor facing the newly slime-covered Roderigo, eyes wide and staring down the barrel of a connected paint gun.

Thank her Gods the decision to take up an engineering elective wasn’t in vain, Emilia thinks, a satisfied smirk painting her lips as she settles back down near the fireplace. As the clock strikes midnight, only three words are whispered.

“Trick or treat.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Iago is... really... fun to write..................
> 
> I wanted to put in some more Othello/Desdemona stuff because MY GOD they are cute when someone’s not trying to kill someone. However, it turns out I’m absolute shit at doing romance and whenever I sat down to write their parts it would just turn into one long procrastination session.  
...So maybe I’ll work on that later.
> 
> Anyways, happy Halloween! Next story you see from me will probably be a Merchant of Venice Christmas fic, feat. Monopoly, snow, and at least one spider.


End file.
